Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 8

Here is a midweek edition of weekend links, just for fun.

James sees the push for diversity as a means of destroying the Aryan concept of honor.

I am thrilled that James is reading Robert E. Howard's Costigan stories.

Is James considering Minneapolis for a 2018 Harm City Tour stop?

Doc tells us about old habits that die hard.

Thoughts on Thanksgiving and history repeating itself.

Food deserts?

James sees the varied and subtle range of humanity, now denied, in Howard's Kane stories. 

Long live the Conan of Baltimore.

Tony Cox and his girl get close to the action and come away unscathed. 

I have always admired the Scots for stopping the Romans.

I liked this story from the Checkered Demon, maybe it was the noisy bike, maybe it was something else, but it spoke to me. 

Ishmael's memories

James reviews the movie, The War Lord.

Sunday, January 14, 2018

Good Fences - Crackpot Podcast Ep 22

The Body Breach


Welcome to Episode 22 of the Crackpot Podcast.  LaFond and Lockhart welcome our first guest in this episode, Baruch, an Israeli settler who was born in Russia, grew up in the US, served in the Army in Iraq, worked as a contractor in Afghanistan, found his faith and moved to Israel.  Along the way he became a reader, commenter and correspondent in the LaFondiverse.

The Crackpot Podcast features prolific author and urban survival expert James LaFond, and Lynn Lockhart, a mysterious woman.

Audio:





0:00:30  Introducing our first guest Baruch
0:00:50  Baruch's Russian Israeli boxing gym
0:02:30  How did Baruch start reading James LaFond?
0:04:27  A little about Baruch's background
0:06:10  Early days in the war in Afghanistan was "like a big game hunting preserve"
0:07:14  http://freerangeinternational.com/blog/
0:08:56  Baruch's animals, including James LaFond the cat
0:12:30  Details on Baruch's time in the Army, contrast with time as a private military contractor
0:17:10  The slow but continuous trickle of action in the post-9/11 wars, the rarity of firefights, parallels to the North American frontier
0:19:15  The Yazidis in Iraq
0:21:35  Baruch's caveat on his combat experience
0:22:58  James wants to know about the Kurds
0:24:00  What does Baruch really think about Arabs?
0:26:00  Kurds and other groups, phenotypes found in the area
0:30:18  Ibn Khaldun
0:31:24  Redhead Thracian slaves and other genetic introgressions
0:33:05  Empires of the Silk Road, Beckwith
0:34:30  Bacon's Rebellion Weissman
0:36:15  Baruch's bike trip
0:38:36  Baruch describes his home in Israel, convergent evolution with rednecks
0:40:30  Government treatment of settlers
0:41:55  Fences, the philosophy and tactical implications
0:46:00  How to deal with razor wire, the body breach
0:48:00  The time Baruch had to manage a mob of underpaid Afghanis
0:54:00  ISIS and the history of Islamic conquest
0:56:04  President Frothy Latte & the CIA
0:59:35  Saudi Arabia, Israel, the glowing orb, what's going on?
1:01:55  Wahabi, Salafi, Sufi, Shia, etc., does it make a difference to the West?
1:03:28  Apocalyptic prophesy in Islam
1:05:20  The role of Israel according to the Torah
1:06:15  How Baruch found his faith
1:07:50  Marcus Aurelius
1:08:30  Stoicism and Buddhism
1:08:55  The guy that lived in a barrel
1:12:18  Bottle and potty break (its the Crackpot and baby care podcast)
1:12:30  The legitimacy of the Sultanate
1:13:50  Maimonides, the Law of Kings and Wars
1:14:45  Principles in Islam which are borrowed from Judaism, how Muslims set up a Caliph and Caliphate, Emirs, involvement of kidnapped and forcibly converted Europeans, colonialism.
1:20:33  The Crusade Through Arab Eyes
1:21:20  The story of Joseph's slavery in Egypt
1:22:45  The parallel to the American political system
1:25:30  Trump in the election was like James LaFond in a WWF match
1:28:30  Pizzagate speculation
1:35:07  Hanukkah greeting from Baruch

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart & James LaFond

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Shout from NYC Crime Report

Tony was kind enough to request a shout for James from Pat Dixon at the NYC Crime Report Podcast and got it on Episode 325.

If you are looking for a podcast to add to your listening, while you eagerly await your favorite, the Crackpot Podcast, give them a listen, I think you will enjoy it.

Thanks Tony, and thank you Pat!

(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Lockhart's Top LaFonds Volume 7

Hello friends, here is a list of my picks, this list is about a week in arrears, so please bear with me while I get caught up (it will never happen).

The Red SUV, assessing a risk, giving no benefit of the doubt.

Reaching for the floor, retirement looms, not a moment too soon.

White Heathens and Praying Indians, a sample of what we can look forward to in James' books about the early colonial period in North America.

Catch up with the LaFondiverse gang in Yule News.

‘On the Ridge of the Silent World’ I am excited that James is getting into Howard's boxing work, because that means it will soon be time for Steve Costigan!

Some Folks, Checkered Demon checking in.  

A crime report with a different tone.  

Some light blade chat Welsh Trench Sword

Well Read Ed gives his prediction for James' Harm City Nationwide Tour 2018.

I will tell you again, I am excited about the Costigan stories!

The subplot of James' early retirement, Steevo's sour deal.


(c) 2018 Lynn Lockhart

Thursday, January 11, 2018

‘Blanco’


Brawl in Cell Block 99 with Vince Vaughn

Film review by James LaFond



In terms of masculine affirmation in the face of the indistinct and habitually faceless evil of the modern world, Brawl on Cell Block 99 is a masterpiece of the budding genre of whitesploitation.

The soundtrack is 1970s and new retro soul, although the protagonist is a rural white man with an unshakable moral compass, the moral compass put to the test when he is laid off and comes home to find his wife unfaithful to him.

Bradley, a Christian of Irish decent, who insists on being addressed as Bradley and not the diminutive Brad, lives strictly and truthfully in the bowels of the Lie of Modernity, is utterly and clearly doomed from the beginning of the film—which then expands inward and upward into a study in heroism.

At every step of the way the moral and legal authority figures are Latino and black, yet Bradley’s doom is held in the hands of the white enforcers of the System, just like Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull would be killed by slave-traitors of their own kind, when it was decreed by the God of things that the old combative race must be done away with in favor of stepping and fetching souls of scant account.

The violence is first rate, the “bad guys” very often sympathetic actors, with Bradley finding common cause more easily with blacks of his own class—who, according to the soundtrack, bequeathed him their lot on the social swamp pyramid—than with the Latino invaders or the Caucasian traitors.

His best line, before ripping into a pack of Mexicans on a prison yard, was in response to being called gringo. He takes no offense to being called blanco, but when the man who hangs a flag from his front porch is called a foreigner in his own country, he responds that the last time he checked, the flag was not “Red, white and burrito,” demonstrating the primordially gentile lack of diplomacy which won his ancestors more berths on slave ships per capita than any tribe of West Africans.

Brawl on cell Block 99 is my new favorite movie and my favorite action star is now Vince Vaughn and his Frankenstein Fu depiction of a direct actionist possessed of a rare but awkward strength. The Character, Bradley Thomas, reminds me of nothing more than Robert E. Howard’s Esau Cairn, an inspirational hero for the men of a dying race.



(c) 2018 James LaFond

Sunday, January 7, 2018

‘The Ocean’s Dusky Smile’

The Isle of Hy-Brasil by Robert E. Howard, Reading from pages 51-54 of A Word from the Outer Dark


An impression by James LaFond


At 49 lines in 11 verses, The Isle of Hy-Brasil is one of Howard’s longer poems.

The poem whimsically addresses ages known and unknown, from prehistory to a dreaming present, where a writer searching memories of tales of old might wander through the imagery of man striving into the unknown for a setting for a tale, a tale that might be an echo of much more.

Below are verses three and six:

For sailing ships are anchored close, about that ancient isle,
Ships that roamed the oceans in the dim dawn days,
Coracles from Britain, triremes from the Nile,
Anchored round the harbors, mile on countless mile,
Ships and ships and shades of ships, fading in the haze.

...
High ships, proud ships, towering at their poops,
Galleons flaunting their pinnacles of pride,
Battleships and merchantmen and long, lean sloops,
Flagships floating with the schooners on the tide.

The Isle of Hy-Brasil, figuring prominently in Howard’s Gaelic mythology, with the voyage of Saint Brandon in his hide boats, is, it seems to the author of this whimsy, an imperishable place in the collective mind of seafaring and worldfaring men, both sailors on Oceanic Fate.

(c) 2018 James LaFond

Saturday, January 6, 2018

Dice the Scrounge by James LaFond

“Fuck your mother’s cold, nether eye,” snarled Gristle, as he shook the skull of bones, blackened by a thousand greasy hands, at the foot of the Whither Wall.

“The Consignment Crows beat you to her every part, I’m afeard,” hissed Dice, at his fellow scrounge, as the six mummified eyes and the single die tumbled, ever rattling the luck-speak, within the skull of bones, sacred to their feral kind for representing the luck—bad, worse and indifferent—that ruled the shifting gale of the life left to them in the City of the Faceless God.

Then, when a wink from Gristle informed that the fickle fates of the all-seeing Crones of Hel were addled enough not to know with a certainty who they cursed and blessed, Dice, luckiest of his ill-starred kind, hooted, “Two crones eyeing the horizon, two looking to Heaven and two to Hel!”

If his prediction proved true, he would take control of the skull, if the singled die within agreed by speaking two dots, he took the ventured item. If there was a disagreement between die and eye, he added an item to the, pot—the skull of a giant bear, just now occupied by a trinket of ivory despair given him by a Sacriphant Beauty of high sort, before she flew from the Whither Wall in gossamer shroud, against which Gristle had placed a coin of unrustable goal.

Up turned the die speaking two.

Up turned two eyes, gazing upon the realm of the Faceless God.

Over rolled two eyes, gazing at the bleak horizon circumscribed by their hide-shod toes.

Down rolled two crone eyes to gaze into their pit of bitchful bemoanment.

“And such me wee pee pee, crones of hel!” capered Dice, as he spun on heel and reached for the coin of unrustable goal and his ivory trinket of dainty despair…

Only a boot of iron-banded black, heeled in kraken-hook grey pinned his avaricious hand to the cold bone-plate pavement—cobbled of countless layers of human shoulder blades, pelves and vertebrae—as a matching boot of High Aisian design, crushed the bear skull pot, obscuring that ventured within.

As a brother in service to the faceless God should, Gristle had his back, so to speak, and as he scampered away, declared in solidarity, “I’ll whisper your name to the crones whenever I piss into the wind, Brother,” and off he clambered, up the Whither Wall, a battlement against the ever-moaning winds sweeping down from ice peaks to the sea, fashioned of the countless eyeless skulls of the Faithful. Up climbed his fellow, toward the distant scaffold, where the Yellow Man defleshed a young dainty of virginal appearance, retrieved from yonder fall, to adorn forever, this unmeasured wall.

A tear reached his cheek, the first shed since the Consignment Crows took off his mother, forty warm moons ago.

Was that tear shed for his own wicked self at his glory end?

Or did he cry for that Dainty that flew on gossamer wing after he so gingerly escorted her—carrying her most the way—to the place of her terminal desire?

A creature of conformity, even in his final extremity, Dice dared not look up at the towering form who bore such weight so deftly as to have glided up behind the Scrounge of Scrounges, at Dice yet—when witch-senses were alert—but rather awaited the summons to serve or the severing stroke, whichever it was to be, mouthing only what duty he long wed to his cracked tongue:

“Lordly booted of Ais, so gracious not to grind my knuckles ‘till I piss, here me wait, scamperest scrounge of World’s End, wheedling doorsweep of the Whither Wall, damned of the Faceless God to serve his Supplicants’ needfulest whisper—what will yeh ‘ave of wee me?”

He shuddered to think what the answer might be as the cruel whither wind swept down the cavernous, bone-paved alley, piteously walled with howling skulls, and the craning neck above tucked under the black-of-black cloak that of a sudden engulfed him like a recessional curtain and placed him in unforgiven conclave with that which profaned, THAT WHICH had long ago damned Dice to scrounging kind.

(c) 2018 James